When I became a teenager and started going out on dates, my parents set strict curfews. Like any teenager, I protested these rules, declaring them hopelessly old-fashioned and restrictive.
“Exactly,” my parents said and did not flinch.
So, like any teenager, I tried to figure out a way around the rules. Mostly I memorized the squeaky steps so that I could tiptoe soundlessly upstairs after hours. It never worked. No matter how carefully I negotiated my ascent, my mother was always awake at the top.
“Karen?” she’d say softly and I would go to the door of her room. “Did you have a nice time?”
“Yes,” I’d whisper.
“Good,” she’d say. “You can tell me about it in the morning.”
She didn’t look at the clock or ask me the time. And unless I was really late, nothing bad happened. I never understood this strange combination of tough rules and few penalties—until I became the mother of a teenage daughter.
Lying awake waiting for her to come home from a date, I didn’t worry much about the time either because I was just so grateful when she came in the door.
I also learned that squeaky steps will not wake up your mother—because she never goes to sleep until you’re home.
